Glory Fades
by InterceptionSunset
Summary: And I suppose one should never expect good things to stick around forever. There'll always be someone, something, some place that throws a wrench in your plans. It wasn't just a wrench for me though, it was a whole toolbox, and that's not the worst part. I'm a really bad mechanic.
1. Introduction

"_Sic transit gloria mundi,_" Latin for "Thus passes the glory of the world".

I suppose most people would panic if they awoke with a thick sheen of blood covering their tongue, but all I managed to do was laugh, if not weakly. My vision was blurred; the already fuzzy details of the world seeping together beyond the point of recognition. It felt like I'd been crushed - not once, twice, but over and over and over and _over_. To the point that I couldn't tell what part of my body had been struck. My torso? My legs? My head? Everything? Was I even alive at this point?

I didn't know, I didn't care, and there wasn't an entirely high likelihood that a convenient ambulance was just going to come by, pick me up, and I'd wake up to breakfast in the hospital later on. Was there insurance in the afterlife? Would I get a better post-death living space if I had been a good person? Had I even been a good person?

"Oh my god, shut up. You're fine," An exasperated, and exhausted, voice sounded from my left. Was it my left? "I'm on your fucking left. Stop talking, you're making it worse." Had I been talking out loud this whole time? I figured it was a bad sign that I couldn't even tell that I was speaking, but I managed to function long enough to regain control over my vocal cords.

"What happened?" I croaked, my words strained and dry. It was as if I'd gargled with a jug full of sand, and then made a smoothie of wet cement.

For a few moments, I didn't get a reply, just an elongated sigh. Whomever this was, they were less than helpful with my situation. I was entirely in the dark here - I couldn't even see. "Aliens," The masculine-sounding entity from the World of the Left said, his answer clipped and lifeless.

It took me a few seconds to process this information, before I finally got angry at his mocking. Who was the injured one here? Me! Though I guess he could be injured as well, and I just wasn't aware of it… "Stop dicking around, I want to know what's going on," I tried to shout, only getting as far as a half-whispered yell.

"I'm being completely serious, hun. You didn't see the spaceships materialize out of the goddamn sky?" They continued gruffly. Sorry my memory isn't entirely functional after getting the shit taken out of me, asshole. "It was quite a sight to see - be a pity if you didn't remember it."

I kept my mouth shut for a while, taking in the information slowly. Aliens, huh? That's… Interesting. I guess. Was it like E.T or was it an Autobots vs. Decepticons type of thing? Considering the damage to my body, I assumed it was the latter. "What in the hell do I have to do with aliens?"

"... Did you hit your head that hard? You should remember these things, Cal, you're a full-fledged S.H.I.E.L.D agent… Just got promoted, too," They quipped as a hand, assumably theirs, grabbed at my arm and began wrapping it in gauze.

Shield? Like - the thing you use to protect yourself? What kind of agency uses that as an name? As if that's _not _conspicuous. Whoever made that one up should be fired, rehired, and fired again. "Shield? _Really_?" I asked after having been forced to sip from a bottle of water, halfway amending my dry-mouth problem.

"Yeah, they had to use some _big _words to get 'shield' to be the acronym, but that's besides the point. I'm gonna have to put you under for a while. You've got some breaks we'll need to set when the paramedics get here," My savior said, too little life in his voice for me to feel comforted. They sounded like they'd been to hell and back. Humor could only cover up so much pain.

Suddenly, I was scared. As if my unfamiliar situation was bad enough, I was being anesthetized just minutes after having woken up. I still could barely see, though the world was beginning to be a little less fuzzy. A small prick on my arm made me tense further, and the normally caustic voice I'd been hearing became soothing, as if he was truly sorry for my suffering. Maybe he was. I wasn't coherent enough to tell.

"It's okay, Cal. You'll be alright. I promise you'll remember everything when you wake up," They reassured, rubbing the inside of my elbow as if it made me feel any better. As if it made me any less afraid of the unknown. As if it made me any less afraid to _die_.

"Please don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere, hun."

**AN: **_Hahaha, was that not the most unspecific introduction you've ever read? I guarantee whatever you're thinking it is, that's really not what's going on. Though I suppose it gives a little insight into the character, and a bit of the storyline, but it's pretty much worthless to you. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this little snippet._

_If you haven't already figured it out, I was mostly inspired by Captain America 2, so if you haven't been to the theater to see it yet, I wouldn't read this. Though I'm not sure how many spoilers will be in the story… I'll stop blabbing before this author's note becomes longer than the intro. Also, don't be swayed by the Latin at the top of the page. I'm not that sophisticated. Leave a review, my boos_. - Marina


	2. The Mission - 1

"_What do you know? The birds and bees, they are wise to the lies. What do you know? So they took to the trees, and took to the skies. What do you know? On top of the chain, and safe from the rain. What do you know? Whatcha' know about the ways of the underside?" _Puscifer (The Mission)

I should've been more apprehensive when I was called in to the agency's clinic for an out-of-routine check-up, but my morningtime grogginess seemed to have blinded me to all common-sense. Instead of questioning as to why they were having me do this, I simply stumbled out of the shooting gallery and ambled down to the clinic.

Everything was normal at first. _Tilt your head up, say 'aah'. Good, good. Breathe for me. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Good. Step on the scale, please. You're 5"2, 130 pounds. Good, good. _It was all typical doctor stuff, until she started veering off into the weird. Not in the typical grossmedical stuff, either. _Your BMI is healthy, muscle percentage is good… Any symptoms of PTSD? How much do you like your work? Do you ever think about furthering your career?_

It started to get uncomfortable when the nurse began poking around in my psyche. Was it _really _any of her business how I was feeling today? Are you a psychiatrist? My therapist? Are you going to prescribe me some antidepressants and let me get on with my day? I briefly wondered how many of their agents had shown symptoms of depression before they decided to do check-ups on everyone.

Unfortunately, pretty much my entire life was up for grabs. My morning routine, what shampoo I use, the number of dead relatives in my family, how I like my toast - anything and everything was up for grabs as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Unless you had completely rewrote every single file on yourself, you were doomed to have even the most insignificant secrets dug up and discussed. Fellow employees were, of course, totally unaware of this, but you could see it in each other's eyes. There was a kind of exposure resting just beneath their smiling gazes that screamed _'Somebody out there knows everything about me'._

One couldn't complain about the agency too much, though. They paid you well, they covered pretty much all of your expenses, and if you died - you'd probably get a lavish funeral. All that's left is paying for your utilities, that is, if you don't already live in the dorms attached to the S.H.I.E.L.D. complex. I was lucky enough not to get roped into their housing deal. That would just open up another world of possibilities, another thousand things for them to know about me.

Not two seconds after having exited the clinic, I was directed yet again to a place that wasn't _my own goddamn office. _I ended up in a medium-sized conference room, the floor strewn with a couple chairs, most of which were filled. The several people already sitting in their loose-knit circle gave me anxious, nerve-filled glances as I sat down in the last chair available. Scooting my seat inconspicuously away from the stocky-looking man beside me, I settled down, folding my hands in my lap and trying not to make it obvious just how tense I was.

Every few minutes or so, we'd all make passing eye-contact with each other, each person wondering what the _hell _we were all gathered here. Eventually, it all made sense. At least, it did when Nick Fury, the director of S.H.I.E.L.D., swept into the room, two other nameless men flanking his sides. The one-eyed man always had an air of superiority, not just because he was your _boss, _but because he undoubtedly was the one that had all your files. He was the man who knew what you'd eaten for breakfast exactly six years ago.

Fury didn't do bullshit, and right now was no exception. He stood rigidly at the front of the room, waiting until we all seemed to be at attention, as if we weren't already paying attention the moment he'd walked in. "I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here right now," He began, as if we couldn't make it any more obvious how confused we all were, "You all are being given a mission. This is a mission that we believe _only _you agents can accomplish. We've spent a long time debating if this was a worthwhile effort, let alone who to send."

We all seemed to gulp at the same time, our combined swallowing making an almost audible noise. Part of me wished he'd walked in and fired us, wiping our memories Men-In-Black style. A mission? An _important _mission? The last mission I did was getting lunch for some council members, and nobody even thanked me for that.

Of course, everyone was trained to large extents in order to fulfill any and all missions they laid in our path. If you did fail, they were understanding, and simply selected a new group of people to take care of whatever you couldn't. We all probably _could _complete this mission, or at least we all had the potential to, but it was almost surreal that we were being asked to do _anything. _People left to do jobs every day, some doing more than one a week, though that was more for the advanced agents. I kind of figured that I was under qualified to do anything but desk work, honestly.

The meeting was incredibly brief, including a fear-inspiring speech from the director, as well as some donuts that we barely had the stomachs to eat. After shoving manila-colored folders into our arms, they sent us away to read over the files. I stared warily at the front cover. A menacing-looking man's photo had been paper-clipped to it.

He was ghostly. Garbed from head to toe in black, the smokey remnants of an explosion covered most of his lethal figure. The fuzzy outline of a machine gun was gripped firmly in one hand, but his other half wasn't visible. It was strange. I'd almost think he didn't exist. The photo was grainy, like somebody had sighted Sasquatch and snatched a photo at the last second.

Glancing nervously from left to right, I began walking briskly back to my office, having been given the week off to read over the papers. When I returned to my homey little desk space, I hastily gathered my things and took off back down the hallway, determined to get home as fast as possible so I could open the folder. I'd stuck it into a thick, four-inch binder, hoping to conceal it from those that I walked past. It wasn't exactly ideal for every civilian in New York City to know that I worked for a secret organization.

I tried my best to steady my breathing. Looking as normal and calm as possible was key, but looking unstressed was strange for those who inhabited such a large city. The trip back home was long and irritating. Everyone seemed to be walking at snail's pace, and it was doing nothing good for the nervousness I was feeling. My skin crawled, the back of my neck was sweating, my palms itched. Was somebody watching me?

By the time I got inside my apartment, I'd managed to shake off most of the uneasiness, and at this point I was just excited. Excited to have something to do, excited to know what the mission was, excited to find out who the ghost-man was. As I opened the folder, though, I hesitated. There was still time to turn it back in and claim that I was not ready. I knew that the moment I got my head into this mess, I'd never get back out.

Holding my breath, I ran my thumbs up and down the portfolio, feeling the smooth paper beneath my hands. It was now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now or never. Now-

I opened the folder.

My eyes frantically scanned the first page for anything recognizable, anything that I could grasp on to. I read and read and read, but it didn't feel like I was actually _reading _anything. All I was doing was skimming, trying in vain to find some little nitch to fit myself into. I needed a word that would signify the beginning. Something not obvious. Something not blatantly pasted to the top of the page. Finally, I found what I was looking for. A title, a mission statement, a namesake.

The Winter Soldier.

**AN: **_Hahaha, it's still vague. Sorry, folks. This is more like a bridge chapter, ya' know? It will lead to bigger things. I could've introduced everyone during this chapter, but that would've been rushing it. (As if I'm not already rushing to finish this chapter so I can go to bed…)_

_Anyways, thank you so, so, so much to all who favorited and followed. Also, much thanks to Plague's Vengeance, puternic, Shellie, and SamanthaThenardier for leaving reviews! Glad to see everyone was intrigued by my vague writing. Tootles, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and everyone else who does not conform to gender norms. Love you guys. uwu_


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